The first time I laid eyes on my future fiance, he was wearing a bathrobe. It was not love at first sight. I never got a straight answer to why Doug had checked himself into a psychiatric hospital. Not that it mattered. At the time, I was grappling with my own reason for admission.

For months I had been lost in a fog of depression—a fog so thick it permeated every cell, clouding my judgment, distorting my view of past accomplishments and future hopes. I was socked in, and death, I thought, was my only way out. It was that kind of thinking that landed me in a psychiatric hospital on Manhattan's Upper East Side.

The hospital was equal parts jail, Survivor, and seventh grade. Alliances were made and broken, authority figures loved and hated, and every action and reaction became fodder for discussion. We were on the fifth floor—a ward with a certain cachet, reserved for high-functioning patients, the best and the brightest of the mood-disordered. Not a drooler among us.

While sweat clothes were de rigueur, first-day patients were required to wear hospital gowns: a hazing of sorts, and the first of many humiliations. At the mandatory community meeting where he was introduced, Doug wore the standard-issue blue-and-white striped robe, reason enough for him to sink silently into one of the Naugahyde chairs. But he didn't. He didn't care. Not about the ridiculous look and certainly not about the rules of etiquette for rookie patients. Doug weighed in on every topic, his opinion delivered like a pronouncement, as though he had been anointed spokesperson for the nutcases. Arrogant bastard. What's his problem? Like most of my thoughts, I kept it to myself.

If he was on the high side of normal on the scale of mood disorders, I was tipping toward catatonic. After six weeks of hospitalization and five different medication trials, depression still had me in a stranglehold.

For a few days, I kept my distance. But on the Fourth of July, I joined my fellow patients on the rooftop to watch the fireworks. Our view was filtered through the chain-link fence that covered the walls and ceiling. "How do you like the birdcage?" I asked Doug. For the rest of the evening, we traded observations about the staff, patients, and life on the fifth floor. "She's a huge Sylvia Plath fan," I said about a depressed teenage poet. "Stockholm syndrome," Doug whispered, referring to a patient who insisted on defending the staff during patient bitch sessions. Later that week, we partnered in a game of Trivial Pursuit. As a team, we were unbeatable.

Before long, we were exchanging life stories. He grew up in an affluent family, the oldest of three. While his passion was music, he became a lawyer to meet his father's expectations. Now he had a successful practice, two small children, and a soon-to-be ex-wife. To hear him tell it, the hospital stay was a kind of time-out, a respite from the stress of work and a failed marriage. He didn't delve into the particulars, and I didn't press for details.

He, meanwhile, wanted to know everything about me. I tried to explain how and why I got trapped in the vice grip of depression. It didn't fit my easygoing, had-it-all-together image. But genetic predisposition, the abrupt end of a relationship, and a history of self-esteem problems had done a number on my neurotransmitters. To compound the issue, being a mental patient violated my family role. I was supposed to be going places. Successful, smart, yes—but suicidal? My family dealt with my hospitalization by ignoring it. It left me feeling disconnected from the world, like an untethered astronaut. Yet somehow, Doug reached me. He saw in me the person I used to be. And with him (and only him) I dropped my cover, a pretense of aloofness meant to disguise the desperation I felt.

While I managed to keep my relationship with Doug under wraps, the staff didn't buy my charade of emotional stability. With my insurance coverage running out, and since I was in no condition for discharge, the team of nurses, psychiatrists, and social workers prescribed a course of electroconvulsive therapy. Had I been better informed about ECT, I would have known that one of its risks is the chance of a sudden relapse of depression. Had I been a little more skeptical, I would have questioned whether my insurance status influenced the team's choice of treatment. But a depressed patient isn't the most discerning health care consumer. Doug asked if I was sure about what I was signing up for. Of course not, I told him, but I felt it was my only hope. I needed to fast-track my recovery.When I entered the hospital, I was planning to attend graduate school. I'd been offered several fellowships in journalism and narrowed down my choices to two. I would either pack my bags and head west to Stanford or stay in New York City and attend Columbia. Either way, I was on a deadline to get well and was way off schedule. So three times a week, I was sent upstairs, knocked out, and zapped. When I'd return to the ward, Doug would be by my side, testing my memory, sympathizing as I complained about the god-awful headaches. When he told me I'd be fine, I believed him.

All those volts seemed to work, and little by little, the fog of depression lifted. I had a future, a bright future, one that would begin at Columbia (I ruled out Stanford because its school year started earlier—and besides, moving would take too much effort).

The day my insurance coverage expired, I was discharged. Doug, who'd left the hospital weeks before me, was there waiting. He made me feel safe, secure, and above all, loved. I envied his confidence in himself and in me. Plus, I found it hard to resist a man who found me irresistible. And when I slipped back into depression and dropped out of Columbia six weeks later, he stayed.

It wasn't that I fell in love with Doug so much as I fell into a relationship with him. This, I told myself, was not a forever union, it was for now: a halfway house on the road to emotional recovery.

As it was, we were the yin and yang of dysfunctional couples—my dependency issues meshed nicely with his controlling behavior. I wasn't at all confident that I was capable of handling my own life; Doug was sure he could handle both of ours. Fine by me. I trusted his opinions; I trusted his judgment; I trusted him.

But from the earliest days of our relationship, there were lies. Fiction was his strong suit, and he'd employ it to cover misdeeds, to maintain his image, or to avoid disappointing me. Mostly he lied about money, but he lied about other things as well. Once, when he failed to meet me, he called with news that his father had suffered a heart attack. (I didn't know his family at the time.) For about a week he'd phone in medical updates from the hospital, until his father was discharged. It was years before I realized that none of it was true. It was fitting that the subject of his cover story was the man who was quick to cover for his son. Once Doug masterminded a real-estate deal built on a house of cards. When it crumbled, his father paid for his son's transgressions to the tune of $500,000. It took years of slowly untangling strands of truth woven into a pile of lies before I discovered the real story.

Doug was a great liar. My staying was a testament to his power of persuasion. When my faith did falter, he'd recite a litany of reasons why I shouldn't go: No one knew me as well as he did; no one would ever love me as much as he did; we'd seen each other through the worst of times. I believed him. I believed in him. I had no choice—I was an emotional cripple, and he was my crutch.

When the second round of depression hit, it robbed me of any hope for the future. Dropping out of Columbia was proof that I was a failure. So when Doug's lies mounted—"l paid that bill," "I deposited your check," "I've gotten us a house in the Hamptons"—I didn't have the emotional energy to argue, much less leave. The truth was, I felt trapped—too dependent on him to move on.

In those early days, just after my hospitalization, I viewed my options as staying with Doug or being alone for the rest of my life. He was a constant reminder of my depression. What if it happened again? He was the only one I could rely on to cushion future falls. Doug had seen me at my worst, and still he loved me. For that, I felt indebted.

The ledger of our relationship was always fluctuating. It took more than a year, another hospital stay, and the right meds for me to finally become a functioning adult. I got a job as a magazine editor and slowly began regaining confidence in my abilities. As time went by, I grew more independent. I worked my way to the top of the masthead. I had lots of friends and interests. Other men were attracted to me. On some level I knew I'd never be able to trust Doug, but each time I contemplated a move, it summoned those voices that whispered, If you leave him, you'll always be alone. You need someone to take care of you.

So I treaded the waters of our relationship, not willing to commit, not wanting to leave. In the lulls between Doug's lies, all those qualities I wanted in a mate—intelligence, wit, generosity, and kindness— would shine through. On so many levels we were well matched. We both loved the outdoors, and we shared a wide-ranging athletic repertoire. On weekends we'd bike, ski, kayak, hike, or play tennis. But we were also content just being together, curled up on the couch reading or talking about subjects that ranged from Middle Eastern politics to petty family conflicts.

His kids spent half their time with us, and whether he was playing Monopoly, pitching high flies, or helping with homework, Doug was totally engaged. My young nieces also adored him. Once, when they were spending a week with us, I promised we'd bake chocolate chip cookies. When I was sidelined with a sprained ankle, Doug filled in, helping the girls mix the Toll House batter. Watching the way he connected to children helped convince me that staying put wasn't so crazy.

Then the lies would mount. A couple of years before our engagement, I was traveling constantly for work, and the more I did, the more distant I felt. Then Doug announced he'd finalized a huge business deal. He wanted to celebrate with a vacation in South America. His treat. After a week together in Rio and Buenos Aires, we were back to feeling like honeymooners. That lasted until I received a $7,000 American Express bill. It wasn't the first time I'd unwittingly picked up the tab. That's it, I said, I'm out of here. But then I rationalized: I couldn't afford to move, I had to stay until he paid me back—and he did, up to a point, with a few monthly installments totaling $2,000. I didn't press him for more, because it wasn't about the money. I would have given him anything; he knew that. The issue was always trust.

Part of the reason I was so forgiving (some would say stupid) is that I viewed his transgressions as signs of self-destructive behavior, not character flaws. And wasn't I living proof that those impulses could be overcome? Thanks to a good psychiatrist and the right pharmaceuticals, I'd undergone an emotional makeover. The after picture—a confident, successful, outgoing individual— bore little resemblance to the shattered woman of before. I had faith that Doug was just a few steps shy of his own makeover.

In the meantime, he paid his penance one errand at a time. Dry cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, picking out Christmas presents for my family—he did everything in his power to make my life easier.

There was a tangled mess of reasons why I stayed. I needed to feel loved, I was afraid to live on my own, I didn't think I deserved better, and I thought breaking up would throw me back into the sinkhole of depression. Besides, leaving Doug would have meant losing my best friend and my home. I loved him and his children. They were my family. So I stuck it out, and seven years after we met, after I convinced myself that he had changed, I agreed to marry him.

At the time, finances were good, work was great, our love had deepened, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd caught him in a lie. We talked about having a baby, and the prospect thrilled me. After years on the verge of a breakup, the permanence of marriage was a relief. Slipping the engagement ring on my finger calmed the restless feeling I'd lived with for so long.

For the next few months, I was wrapped up in becoming a bride. Focusing on details such as invitations, guest lists, and finding a wedding gown distracted me from any lingering doubts. As best as I can explain, that last year with him was like a dream, the rare kind in which you're granted something impossible, like sitting and talking to a loved one who died years earlier. You don't try to rationalize; you're overjoyed, so you go with it. Then the alarm goes off and in an instant, you realize none of it was real.

Two days before my nuptials, the tent was billowing in the backyard, a dance floor covered the pool, and gifts piled up. All week, Doug had paced restlessly each time he talked on the phone, and in conversationhe'd seemed distracted. I dismissed his behavioras prewedding angst. When the mailarrived that day, Doug responded to theclink of the letter slot as though it were thefiring gun of a 50-yard dash. He raced pastme to collect the mail and disappeared intothe bathroom. "Anything for me?" I askedwhen he surfaced. He handed off a coupleof pieces of junk mail, then headed out.

I went digging in the bathroom trash. Papers had been shredded to bits. I moved the basket into the den, dumped the contents onto my desk, and pieced together enough of my bank statement to discover my balance was reduced to just double digits. My stomach was doing flip-turns, but I remained clearheaded.

A call to the bank confirmed that two out-of-sequence checks—amounting to $25,000—recently had been cashed. My fiancé had been forging my checks. It was at once shocking and shockingly familiar. From the time I said yes, I had kept my doubts about Doug, about us, behind a retaining wall of hope and faith. Now I was overcome by humiliation at my trust in him. I was an idiot. A scared, broke idiot.

I dialed his cell phone. "How could you?!" I spit out before he managed hello. "Forged checks?"

First he claimed he didn't know what I was talking about. Then he fumbled for an excuse, and finally he broke down crying. "Why, why, why?" I yelled. "What the hell did you do with the money? Was it drugs? Gambling? What?" He just kept crying, "No, no, no." His sobbing disgusted me. "The wedding's off!" I screamed. He didn't think I was serious; I didn't know I was. I said the words before the thought registered. I hung up; he came straight home.

That day in our living room, standing amid piles of gifts, my wedding dress hanging in the closet, I yelled at Doug in a voice I barely recognized as my own. "What did you do with the money?"

"I needed it for the business," he answered. "Some deals fell through." Rather than admit failure, or ask me for money, he stole it. That much I believed. The illusionist had to keep up appearances.

I called my parents and his and told them to come over. We needed to talk.

My parents sat in one corner of the den, Doug's father in another. Doug and I sat on the couch in between. I may have been crying, but Doug was sobbing. With only vague knowledge of our history, my parents found the news stunning.

For his father, however, this was a sickening reminder of the past. My father interrogated Doug as I had, but Doug offered nothing but apologies. His father, usually a man of action, just shook his head with a look of despair. While Doug continued to beg forgiveness, his father turned to me and in a flash of anger said, "You know, I have to blame you for this."

"Fuck you," I muttered as I walked out of the room, leaving my parents to answer for me. I didn't want to expend energy to yell at him, to question his behavior for always being there, checkbook in hand, ready to cover his sonrsquo;s misdeeds. Except, of course, when I was the one who'd been swindled.

Later, when his mother returned from work, Doug and I were there, along with his brother, father, and aunt. Before we said a word, she read our faces and began screaming, "What is it, what's happened?" We delivered the news; she wailed. Braced by her husband and sister, trailed by a sobbing Doug, she made her way into the kitchen. I stayed behind, dry-eyed.

In spite of being scared, angry, hurt, humiliated, and broke, I felt a sudden overwhelming sense of relief. By betraying me in such a dramatic fashion, Doug had delivered the ultimate shock treatment, and this time, it worked. My view of our relationship was clear. His lying was pathological, and for me to stay any longer would be insane.

Then I turned to his brother and said, "That's the last time I pick up a guy in a mental hospital."